Before flying out to Uganda I told myself that, having travelled around much of the world outside Africa before, I was fully prepared for a culture shock I was about to experience.

Yet, even I wasn't prepared for my five days in the capital city Kampala.

My trip began with the kind of chaos I'd quickly have to get used to. At passport control at Entebbe Airport, I encountered a woman standing forlornly with an exhausted-looking child. She told me she couldn't afford the 50,000 Ugandan shillings (about £15) to pay for a visa to enter the country, and I promised to pay for them.

When I finally found the two cashpoints, at the other end of the airport, one was broken and the other eventually worked (only on the third time of asking and only with my Visa credit card), so we just about managed to get through passport control.

I was in Uganda to report, along with two of my colleagues, on the Commonwealth Heads of Government Conference (CHOGM) in Kampala, the compact little Ugandan capital city built on a number of hills and valleys by the shores of the lush Lake Victoria.

I was driven the 50 minutes from the airport in a taxi to the Namirembe Guest House, which is a simple affair situated on a hillside around 3km from the city centre. Despite being very basic with few creature comforts, it was clean, comfortable and secure (and, bearing in mind prices were massively inflated as foreigners flocked to the city during the Commonwealth conference) very cheap at $35 (£17) per night. The view of the city, in particular, was sensational, a characteristic that the guest house paraded with its slogan on every signpost: 'A million dollar view.'

Kampala itself is a thriving, organic, chaotic place, where the streets are polluted with a haze of smog, and crowded with traffic jams and pedestrians in a way which may make even Londoners, who are used to a lack of personal space, feel a bit invaded.

Travelling around the town is a particularly difficult business if you're looking for public transport - there are no buses or trains, and traffic is often completely jammed in mazy streets infested with potholes so big they'd count as ditches in the UK (this was, admittedly, made worse by the conference).

A common means of travel is to hail a motorbike and ride on the back. One lunchtime, I somewhat foolishly gave this a go.

I'd never travelled on any kind of bike before, let alone in Africa, and as it buzzed off jerkily I suddenly felt insecure in my seat. As an ill-advised knee jerk reaction to one particularly mean bend, I steadied myself by instantaneously putting my arms around the waist of the large driver sitting in front of me. It must have looked ridiculous to anyone passing by: this pathetic, scared little white man clutching the sides of his driver. Thankfully, he didn't complain about my gesture and, looking back, it probably kept me from falling off.

It was, as predicted, a terrifying ride - yet, it certainly succeeded in beating the traffic.

Compared to Western capital cities, Kampala feels extremely small and provincial and, in the main, feels safe to walk around.

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